


Interpersonal Dynamics 101

by anniedison, orphan_account



Series: one by one they all just fade away [2]
Category: Community (TV), Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community AU, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniedison/pseuds/anniedison, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Dean has a bread fetish, Javert has a Dean fetish, and everyone else seems to have a thing for Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interpersonal Dynamics 101

"So," said Combeferre, stirring his cappuccino idly, "why  _did_  you leave Spanish early?”

He had dragged a very grumpy looking Enjolras to the coffee shop across the street to celebrate the end of the first week of school, but it didn’t seem like there was much to celebrate. And if he was grumpy before, he turned positively dour when he couldn’t pay back Combeferre for his latte (the only things in his wallet were one Canadian dollar and a chocolate coin that tasted like sawdust), and his face literally sank when Combeferre mentioned Spanish class. 

"Don’t ask," he warned, taking a small sip of his coffee - extra-hot with an extra shot for an extra-bad day. 

"Well, you obviously weren’t in the bathroom - you’re a lousy liar, by the way. And you missed group project assignments, so there’s that."

"It’s your fault," grumbled Enjolras. "You told me to get a new image - ‘get involved’ - "  his air quotes were the most sarcastic Combeferre had ever seen, " - and now look where that got me!"

"Go on?"

"So school newspaper signups were in the Dean’s office, right? Except the door was closed and the handle wouldn’t budge. And I panicked because of the whole ‘limited space on paper staff’ thing so I went around the corner to try and break in through a window or something - "

"You? Break in?" laughed Combeferre. 

Enjolras scowled. “I had to learn how…before rehab, I mean. And I’m really good, like  _really_  good when I have a hairpin on me. Except I didn’t have a hairpin on me.”

"Right. So…"

"So I found an alternate entrance. It was awful. Did you know…know that…um…the…" Here he turned very red and fell silent. 

"Spit it out."

"That stupid god-awful cat flap actually leads to Dean Valdean’s office!" burst out Enjolras. 

Combeferre fell off his chair in a fit of helpless giggles. “I…I thought you…couldn’t…fit,” he managed eventually. 

"I got dragged in."

"By who?"

"Prouvaire," Enjolras spat venomously. 

"What - the stoner poet in the front row of Spanish?"

"Yeah."

"Makes sense, he left class a few minutes after you. But wait, how did  _he_  get in?”

"Oh, that’s the worst bit. See, the actual door was closed but it wasn’t locked. I apparently pushed instead of pulled."

Combeferre made a sputtering noise in a vain attempt to not choke on his coffee and Enjolras kicked him under the table. “Stop that, you’re worse than Grantaire!” 

"Sorry," coughed Combeferre. "So did you get anything?"

"Nearly didn’t. Prouvaire’s a condescending asshole though, and drew an extra line somewhere. And made me sign my name on it. So now I’m  _co_ -crossword editor. Honestly…” He took a giant swig of coffee and winced - he’d burned his tongue.

"Prouvaire got centerspread, y’know," added Combeferre conversationally, while Enjolras fixed him with an icy glare that could’ve been copyrighted by this point. 

"No shit. He told me, Grantaire told me, and now you."

Combeferre nodded sympathetically and let Enjolras trail off into silence. 

"But Grantaire is such a dickhead, did I tell you?" he added after a minute, voice oddly high-pitched. "You know what he said? ‘Eight letters, starting with an E, and the clue is entitled brat’. Who gave him the right?" Enjolras swallowed miserably. "I just don’t…I don’t like failing. Not after…"

"Yeah," murmured Combeferre. "I know."

"Anyways," said Enjolras after quickly rubbing his eyes, "what was that you said about a group project?"

"About that…Grantaire tried to save you for himself, but it didn’t work - there were only two of you out of the room when Javert was picking partners, so yeah…you’re kinda…stuck with…"

"Oh, god." Enjolras looked stricken. "Well then. Can I get a refill of coffee? I think I’m going to need it." 

 

* * *

 

It was Monday, and there was a free period after lunch - one of the classrooms had apparently flooded because of a burst pipe. Enjolras had just dumped his bag in the study room and dashed out the door, presumably to bash Prouvaire’s face in. Cosette had to admire his gumption. 

Marius leaned across the table, head resting on his arm. “Should we get started, or…”

Cosette grinned. “With luck, I won’t have to. I’m trying to transfer out into Pig Latin or something - Enjolras told me that was an option and - ” she screwed up her face in concentration, “I’m-ay o-say eady-ray or-fay at-thay. The secretary told me to talk to Dean Valdean or whatever. You want to come with?” She put on her most winning smile.

“Sure,” Marius replied, thinking privately that the smile was probably overkill, but also that it was kind of nice that she still thought she needed to use it on him.

It was easy enough to find the door to the Dean’s room, considering it was painted an almost nauseating shade of lilac. Cosette knocked, but didn’t get an answer.

“Dean Valdean?” she called, but was met with more silence.

She tried knocking again, this time harder. The door, which hadn’t been shut properly, swung inwards ever so slightly.

Cosette bit her lower lip, looking around furtively before leaving Marius and slipping inside, closing the door softly behind her. What she saw inside made her gasp.

The walls were hung with various paintings of bread. One was of a cat made out of a loaf of rye and wearing a chef’s hat with the caption “The bread’s meow”.  Another was of a man juggling rolls while riding a unicycle.

The shelves lining the back wall were covered with books with titles like The Bread Lover’s Cookbook, Bread Alone, and The Bread Bible. On the desk, resting on a simple white plate, was a single, perfect baguette.

Before Cosette even had time to take everything in, the door banged open behind her. She whirled around to see Dean Valdean’s shocked (and slightly embarrassed) face.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked gruffly, moving quickly to the desk and throwing a napkin over the baguette.

“Um, just trying to get my schedule changed…sir?” Cosette replied uncertainly, trying very hard not to laugh at the uncomfortable expression on the Dean’s face. He kept stealing glances at the now-covered bread.

“Right, well, that’s a matter for the secretary, isn’t it?” he asked; a rhetorical question, evidently, as he began herding her back into the hallway.

“Actually she said to come to you –“

“Secretary!” the Dean insisted, before slamming the door in her face.

“Wow. That was weird,” Marius commented, seeming to materialize beside her.

Cosette jumped.

“Yeah,” she said angrily (because Dean Valdean could go rot in hell for all she cared), dragging Marius away. “You can say that again.”

Considering that she had no way out of this now, Cosette, once more at the study table, scanned the assignment with a growing sense of misery. This Senor Javert was probably the worst teacher she had ever had. Considering she survived twelve years of public school, that was really saying something.

"You know what would be cool?" asked Marius suddenly, unconsciously twirling his pencil between two of his fingers. 

Cosette stared at his hand enviously (why couldn’t she do that?) and didn’t bother to answer. 

Marius pressed on. “If we made our conversation about making a conversation! That would be the most meta thing since that episode of - “

Flicking her eyes heavenwards, Cosette cut in abruptly.

“Hey, you know what would be cool?” He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again when she glared at him. “If we copied the conversation in the book and just changed the words. That, Marius,  _that_  would be cool.”

"I have a feeling that you’re not the first person to come up with that idea."

"Then we just have to make sure we go first."

"Oh," said Marius, eyes downcast. "Cool." 

After five minutes of frenzied rewording, Cosette was beginning to regret not listening in class. She leaned back in her chair. “I don’t understand why I’m calling myself a llama.”

"It’s not - "

"Actually, a llam- _o_  sounds like a guy llama and I’m not a dude or a llama - “

"I think your pronunciation is maybe just a little bit - "

"Shut up, Marius. Can we just screw this?"

Marius immediately brightened up. “I have two tickets to the sci-fi marathon in the theater two blocks away! I was thinking of giving one to a stranger because that would be awesome, ‘specially if the stranger turned out to be  _someone_ , but if you want…”

"Sci-fi is for dorks in giant glasses who think logic is overrated," muttered Cosette, sinking even further into her high-school jacket. She paused a moment, then whispered under her breath, "Logic  _is_  overrated.”

"And you’ve got the giant glasses, too," added Marius. 

"Oh," mused Cosette. "I forgot I was wearing those."

"After school, then?"

"Yeah. I mean, I guess?"

The bell rang then, and Cosette stood up, rather dazed. She felt a strange urge to link arms with him but resisted it. She stuffed her hands moodily in her pockets instead, because this was just weird. 

 

* * *

 

Enjolras found Prouvaire in the library. His hands were oddly clammy even though he’d spent all weekend practicing exactly what he was going to say to him in the most menacing voice known to mankind.

The guy was sprawled out on a beanbag chair marking up a book with a red pen. From what Combeferre had told him over coffee, Enjolras knew that Jean Prouvaire was a year older than Grantaire, a condescending asshole, a dropout out of some random European college (because he wanted to spend a year hitchhiking or something stupid like that), a condescending asshole, a guitar-player in some god-awful band that never did anything, a condescending asshole, a probably-published poet (but nobody was actually quite sure) and a condescending asshole. 

"Um…" ventured Enjolras after clearing his throat, prodding an edge of the beanbag chair with the tip of his shoe. 

"Oh, hey!" The bastard sounded inordinately cheerful. "This about the project, or…?"

Enjolras swallowed. “So. Prouvaire. I think it would be much better for everyone involved if you let me take control of the whole presentation. I’ll give you the script Thursday morning, memorize it as best you can, and we’ll never speak of this again. Deal?”

"No."

"No?" 

"What do you take me for?"

(The words “a condescending asshole,” were dangerously close to slipping out, but Enjolras somehow managed to keep his mouth shut.) 

"And call me Jehan. Please. Otherwise it sounds like you’re pissed at me - "

"Oh, I’m totally not pissed at you,” Enjolras muttered. 

Jehan glanced up at him with very bright green eyes that seemed to sparkle a bit under the fluorescent library lights. Enjolras was pretty sure he didn’t get the sarcasm, or any sarcasm at all. He really didn’t look his age, either. He looked about three. Or two.

"I’m assuming you want to get a head start on this thing? There’s another chair somewhere…"

(Definitely two.) 

"No, I’ll stand," Enjolras cut him off curtly. "I left my stuff in the study room anyway."

Jehan rolled his eyes, plonked himself on the floor, and forced a protesting Enjolras into the beanbag chair. (Not for the first time, Enjolras wished he was working with Grantaire - at least then he probably could’ve gotten the upper hand.)

"So…" began Jehan, "d’you have any idea what we’re doing?"

"Nope," confessed Enjolras, finally realizing that Prouvaire wasn’t going to take no for an answer. "We could just quote the book back at Javert. I doubt he’s read it, anyway."

Jehan laughed, sounding surprisingly bitter. “We could quote something legit at him too. Neruda, or - “

"That’s actually plagiarism! The textbook’s shit anyway, so it doesn’t really count - "

Jehan dropped his voice an octave to singsong, “But that, student 51439, is still plagiarism, and - ” he cut himself off with a fit of hysterical, hiccupping laughter that was so ridiculous that Enjolras couldn’t help but join in. They were both close to tears when the library assistant (a weirdo with sideburns shaped like stars) had to shush them. 

"Am I really student 51439?" asked Enjolras, gasping for air. "I could’ve sworn I was 435…6…7 - no, wait, that’s Grantaire - "

"Yeah, you’re 51439."

"You have a really good memory," Enjolras said, impressed.

"I didn’t remember anyone else’s." Jehan beamed at him - it was disarming. The kind of smile that he used to get in elementary school when his friends’ older sisters wanted to pinch his cheeks and call him ‘cute.’ But this time it was nice. Really nice. 

After god-knows-how-long of small talk (Enjolras didn’t even do small talk, what was wrong with him today?), some absent-minded flipping of textbook pages, and a few useless notes made on index cards (and god, Jehan’s handwriting looked like an actual computer font, all curves and loops), the bell decided to be a killjoy and ring. 

Enjolras groaned. “I left my stuff in the study room, I have to go…I have English…”

"I’ll try and get something done by the time you get out," assured Jehan. 

"What, you’re ditching class?"

"Bahorel would never dare mark me absent. Besides, I know the entire psych curriculum backwards and forwards and sideways, so…yeah.”

Enjolras was about to leave when Jehan stopped him. “Here,” he said suddenly, scrawling his phone number in red on the back of Enjolras’s hand. “Use it.” It was more of a command than anything. 

His breath hitched and he didn’t know why and god, he was losing it.

“Jehan?”

"Hm?"

"Thank you. For…for not mentioning the cat flap or anything."

"Oh, Enjolras.” Jehan twisted his mouth up and dimpled - yes, dimpled - at him. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

And that was when Enjolras’s heart and stomach seemed to exchange places in a way that he couldn’t possibly explain. 

 

* * *

 

At that moment, back in the study room Eponine let out a scream of frustration; Feuilly jumped out of his chair—her screams of frustration were  _loud_. “Who the hell is playing  _Call Me Maybe_  over the PA system?” she shrieked. 

Marius, nearly to the door, turned back with a grin. “I may or may not have said something to the Dean about background movie soundtracks…he’s got all those security cameras, so he might as well _do something_  while spying on us.”

"You little shit!" cried Eponine, flexing her fingers as if she intended to strangle him. 

Grantaire’s eyes widened as he did a quick headcount. “Where’s Enjolras? He’s the only one missing, so the song’s got to be for him - ”

"Huh?"

"Not  _Enjolras_ ,” he groaned under his breath. “Whoever’s been coming on to him is going to get punched in the - “

"Look, there  _are_  other people in the school,” reasoned Cosette. “Contrary to popular belief, it’s not always about  _us_.”

"Shut up, of course it is," said Grantaire, surprised. "It’s  _always_  about us.” He glanced at Marius, who nodded. 

"We  _are_  the primary plotline, so Enjolras - “

" - is royally screwed," finished Grantaire, visibly pale. " _Literally_.” 

 

* * *

 

"Yo, Enjolras!" called Grantaire from across the hallway after school.

The object of his attention turned so sharply away from his locker that his hand slipped, and he dropped three textbooks on the floor with a deafening crash. Grantaire swiftly sidled up to him and scooped up the books with one hand; Enjolras flushed an angry shade of pink and snatched them back. “Don’t you ever dare  _'yo'_  me, Grantaire.  _Ever_.” 

Unfazed, Grantaire continued. “Where were you during free period?”

"You’re not my mother!"

"Lovely evasion tactic. But where  _were_  you?”

"Working," hissed Enjolras. "What do you think?" 

"Oh, I don’t know. Making out with someone behind a tree?" His tone was airy, but his eyes glinted sharply. 

“ _Grantaire_!” he exclaimed, horrified and blushing worse than before.

"Well then,  _who were you with_?”

Enjolras swallowed, and realized why Grantaire had been such an excellent lawyer. “You have  _absolutely_  no authority over me,” he said with more conviction than he felt, raising his chin determinedly. 

"Enjolras - " There was a faintly menacing edge to his tone, slight enough that it made Enjolras uneasy. 

"Fine!" he gave in, tripping a bit over his words. " _Fine_. I was with Jehan. And we were  _working_. Happy now?

"See, that wasn’t so hard. Wait,  _who_?”

“My Spanish partner, who else?”

“You mean that asshole you wanted to strangle on Friday?” laughed Grantaire with a relieved smirk. “How’s  _that_  going for you?”

“Decently,” Enjolras ventured after a ridiculously long pause, and Grantaire realized with a start that those two hadn’t been on a first-name basis before, and  _oh god_.

“Enjolras?  _Enjolras!_  You’re blushing. Why the hell are you  _blushing_?”

“Am not!” he exclaimed, putting a hand to his cheek in shock – a very nice hand, as hands went.

“Why so defensive?” needled Grantaire, feeling guiltier with every word. “Are you  _that_  bad of a kisser?”

“We  _didn’t_  – “

“But you want to?”

Enjolras raised the most miserable eyebrow Grantaire had ever seen. “Was that rhetorical?”

“Yeah,” spat Grantaire before walking away. “It was.”

 

* * *

 

Tuesday was quite possibly the worst study session since their first. Marius and Cosette weren’t speaking – apparently they’d gone to a theater and the popcorn was shit and the movies were worse (at least according to  _Cosette_ ) – and left after five minutes of horrendous silence. Enjolras had walked in after them, took one look at Grantaire’s face, and turned on his heel and walked straight out again.

Not that his absence was making things better.

“Look, Mabeuf, we are  _not_ doing plants!” Grantaire said, probably a bit more forcefully than necessary. Ever since Javert had paired him with the old man, he had been trying to convince Grantaire that the assignment obviously called for Spanish plants talking to each other.

“They could be cactuses!” Mabeuf insisted, waving around a complex diagram involving at least five maraca-waving Saguaros and several prickly pears with finger tambourines.

“Cacti,” Grantaire corrected automatically; Mabeuf ignored him.

“And look, see, they’re sacrificing one to the Aztec god—“

“Don’t you think that’s a bit…culturally insensitive?” Grantaire interrupted, trying very hard to mask his growing frustration. Even Enjolras couldn’t have thought up a plan as ridiculous as this, and at least he was pretty.

“Are you calling me a  _racist_?” Mabeuf asked, white eyebrows flying up so fast Grantaire thought they might shoot off his forehead. “Is it because I’m  _black_?”

“What? No!” Grantaire said, brow furrowed. This guy really was crazy. “I just don’t think human—plant?—sacrifice is appropriate classroom material!”

Mabeuf huffed, visibly deflating. The anger quickly faded from his expression, only to be replaced with something akin to resignation. Or maybe it was disappointment.

(Either way, Grantaire didn’t think he liked it any better.)

“Fine, I get it,” Mabeuf muttered, beginning to pack up his things. “You never wanted to be my partner. I guess I’m just not ‘cool’ enough for you.” He sniffed, pausing to wipe at his nose with a monogrammed handkerchief. Grantaire wasn’t sure if he should feel confused, amused, or guilty. (Currently, he was feeling a little bit of all three, and previously hadn’t known that was even possible.)

“I know I’m no Enjolras,” Mabeuf continued, standing up to walk out the door. “But you could at least show an old man a little respect.”

Grantaire sat there in shock, and it was only as the door was swinging shut that he managed to shout out, “Am I really that obvious?”

“Yes,” Eponine replied, slipping through the door just before it closed. “Look, we all want his notes, but you’re coming on  _way_  too strong.” Behind her, Feuilly let out an undignified squeak as the door slammed in his face. He opened it to follow her in with a world-weary sigh.

Grantaire groaned, burying his head in his arms. “The Lord is testing me,” he drawled sarcastically.

Feuilly patted him on the back as he passed, ignoring Grantaire’s tone for three blissful seconds before doing an abrupt double take. “ _Excuse_  me?”

Grantaire raised his head just enough to glare at him. 

“Don’t worry,” Feuilly said comfortingly, settling into his customary seat, “Maybe it’s the Lord’s way of saying He has another plan for you.”

“Or _maybe,_ ”  Grantaire gritted out, “It’s actually just the Lord’s way of telling you to fuck off.”

Feuilly gasped.

“That didn’t even make sense,” Eponine commented. It didn’t seem to matter to Feuilly, who stormed out grumbling something about ungrateful people and soccer practice.

“Bad day?” Eponine asked, attempting to sound sympathetic. Grantaire turned his glower to her. She just laughed.

“You really are that obvious, by the way,” she added, pulling out her Spanish textbook as if three quarters of their study group hadn’t already left in fits of anger. “Not that I blame you.”

"He  _color-codes_  his notes, ‘Ponine! And besides, he’s just a kid, and a floundering one at that – I mean, he’s in love with a hippie who takes zero period pottery!” Grantaire added in a miserable attempt to make himself look less like a creep, then realized he probably shouldn’t have made it obvious that he’d spent all of that day stalking Prouvaire’s schedule.

Eponine thankfully ignored that last bit. “It makes sense - you two are the ones who want out of this shithole more than any of us. But somehow I doubt that’s what this is all about.”

“It’s  _Mabeuf_ ,” Grantaire groused, banging his head on the table, then rubbing it and thinking that he probably shouldn’t do that again. Eponine snickered.

“He keeps going on about Spanish cacti,” he continued with as much dignity as he had left (which, admittedly, wasn’t much). “It’s just supposed to be some simple stupid project, and he’s trying to write the next great American novel. Or Mexican novel. Whatever.” He sighed. “It just gets so fucking annoying, you know?”

Eponine remained silent, continuing to scan over her notes.

“ _You know?_ ” he repeated, trying to make eye contact.

Now it was Eponine’s turn to sigh. She looked up and fixed Grantaire with a stare that reminded him uncannily of that scary elementary school librarian he’d had a crush on when he was eight.

“Look, Grantaire,” she began, “We all know you’d rather be with Enjolras.”

Grantaire started to say something, but swallowed it down in the face of the look leveled his way.

“We  _all_  know who you’d rather be with,” she repeated firmly. “But do you know that Mabeuf specifically asked Javert to be paired up with you?”

Grantaire looked down sullenly.

“Well?”

“No,” he mumbled, largely failing to ignore the growing guilt that was boiling in the pit of his stomach.

“Well, he did. He really wanted to work with you, Grantaire.”

“But  _why_?” he asked, throwing his hands up in frustration. “He could’ve worked with Feuilly, they’re at least closer in age—they could probably talk about knitting or something.”

Eponine rolled her eyes.

“He thinks you’re  _cool_ , Grantaire. God only knows why, but he does. He just wants to be part of the in-crowd for once.”

Grantaire looked dumbfounded.

“But, why—?”

“Did you know he’s a published author?” Eponine continued, thoroughly enjoying the look of deep regret that Grantaire was doing a poor job of masking. “He wrote a book all about the different plants and flowers in the area.” She paused for dramatic effect. “It sold ten copies.”

“Really?” asked Grantaire, aghast.

“Yep,” Eponine replied primly. Judging by Grantaire’s expression, her work here was done. She began packing up her things.

“Just think about that next time you want to hurt an old man’s feelings,” she said, walking out.

“I didn’t  _want_ to—“ Grantaire called, a touch desperately, but the door had already slammed shut.

Grantaire banged his head on the table, groaning. That was when Enjolras walked in again.

“Where  _is_  everybody?” He dropped his notebook on the table and went to peer out the door.

Grantaire quickly slid it to his side of the table and onto his lap, discreetly opening it to the most recent page. His first reaction was to laugh, but he quickly stifled it –god, though—it was so  _typical_  Enjolras. He’d changed pen colors every two lines, and his handwriting was very angry-looking cursive. Neat in a _deadly_  sort of way, with points instead of curves, and tiny puncture marks over each “i”. (There was also a small and terrible stick-figure drawing of Senor Javert falling off a cliff in the margin, but it was so horrendous that Grantaire chose to forget it existed.)

The notes themselves were nearly too cramped to be helpful. Emphasis on _nearly_. Grantaire glossed over them with a growing sense of wonder – the kid wrote down  _everything_. Probably unconsciously - a fourth of the way down the first page, there was an underlined “if J. keeps looking at me, someone’ll get suspicious” and a “SHIT WHY DOES EVERYBODY KEEP TEXTING ME IN THE MIDDLE OF CLASS” in capital letters.

Halfway through page three there was a cryptic “R. is an asshole. With eyes that could melt ice,” in purple pen – contextually, it seemed to time up uncannily with halfway through class, when he’d poked Enjolras and asked him for a pencil. (He and Cosette were halfway through an intense game of hangman when his lead broke.) Not that  _he_  could be R, it didn’t make any logical sense, unless there was another G in the room and so Enjolras took the second letter, but still -

“Does the letter R mean anything to you?” Grantaire asked suddenly when Enjolras came back into the room.

“No,” he said blankly – judging by his lack of a poker face in most situations, he was probably telling the truth, which meant that Grantaire was holding a piece of his subconscious –

“Give those back! You didn’t even ask! It’s technically  _stealing_!” cried Enjolras. “You are  _such_  an asshole! I don’t know why I even put up with you – “

“Because my eyes can melt ice?” asked Grantaire with a grin.

Enjolras blinked confusedly and abruptly walked out again. 

 

* * *

 

The next afternoon, Grantaire walked into study group only five minutes late, sporting a determined expression. Ignoring the raised eyebrows, he turned immediately to Mabeuf, pulling something out of his bag.

It was a book— _Local Flora_ , by one M. Mabeuf.

“So, you were saying something about sacrificing cactuses?”

Mabeuf’s eyes looked slightly watery; his smile was blinding.

“Yeah,” he replied; he had to clear his throat before continuing, “And I was thinking we could do this thing where they cut off the…”

As Mabeuf and Grantaire animatedly discussed the benefits of sacrificing various desert plants, Eponine and Feuilly exchanged a subtle fist-bump under the table.

Cosette looked warmly at Grantaire, then impulsively turned her head. “The movie wasn’t  _that_  bad, Marius. Not really.”

He grinned. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

(Enjolras, seemingly zoned out in a corner, had a small smile on his face when Grantaire finally found it in himself to look up. He nodded apologetically when their eyes met, and it was like the sun coming out.)

 

* * *

 

On Thursday, Marius and Cosette went first – speaking so rapidly that nobody could tell how awful their pronunciation was. They’d only spoken for one minute before they finished, and Javert was staring at them so venomously that the two of them spontaneously started beatboxing for their remaining four minutes. (For their grade, he scribbled something down that looked either like an F or a misshapen B.)

Grantaire’s mouth had suddenly gone unpleasantly dry – were the feelings of some (probably mentally unstable) old dude really worth a failing grade? He’d just gotten up to drown himself in the water fountain just outside when Javert locked eyes with him, smiling menacingly. Which, of _course,_ meant that he picked him to go second.

Enjolras and Jehan exchanged smirks, doing nothing to calm his nerves.

And  _that_  was when the Dean burst in, trailing a banner emblazoned with the words “Surprise Inspection” in hand-drawn block letters.

“Administrative official 24601,” said Senor Javert evenly, not missing a beat. “I was expecting you.”

Dean Valdean dropped his banner in a fit of rage. “I have a name! And you can’t have been expecting me! This is, as it says very clearly, a  _surprise inspection_  – ”

“Does he number  _everyone_?” whispered Grantaire to nobody in particular. “Because, god, that’s – “

Javert cocked his head like a creepy mechanical parakeet. “Student 43567. _Shut up_.”

He did.

“Now, administrative official 24601 – “ he was cut off abruptly when the Dean pulled a stale baguette out of thin air and charged.

“ _My name is Dean Valdean!_ ”

Grantaire and Mabeuf barely managed to jump out of the way in time to escape being trampled. Dean Valdean lunged at Senor Javert and began beating him with his baguette.

Marius and Cosette glanced at each other, nodded once, and promptly leapt out the window, with Eponine not far behind. Grantaire made to follow them, but turned back after seeing Mabeuf standing with his back pressed against the whiteboard, trying to avoid being run over by the two administrative officials apparently locked in mortal combat. Grabbing the old man’s arm, Grantaire made a run for it out the classroom door. Combeferre and Jehan were the next to go, the rest of the class stampeding out after them.

Grantaire, Mabeuf, Combeferre, and Jehan all stopped together outside. Panting and out of breath, it was several moments before anyone was able to say anything.

“Where’d – those other – kids - get to?” Mabeuf asked between wheezes.

“Dunno,” Combeferre managed, clutching a stich in his side. “I didn’t think Marius was that athletic, though.”

“Where’s _Enjolras_?” Jehan questioned, eyes wide as he surveyed their fellow students who now littered the quad.

Grantaire glared at him.

“I was just about to ask that, actually.”

Combeferre suppressed an eye-roll.

“I think he’s still back in the classroom,” Mabeuf said.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Grantaire muttered, before he, Combeferre, and Jehan all ran off back in the direction they had come.

“I’ll just wait here!” Mabeuf called, hobbling over to a nearby bench. “Damn kids.”

The sight that met their eyes back in the classroom would have been hilarious, had it not been mildly terrifying.

Javert and Valdean were still dueling; somewhere along the line, Javert seemed to have picked up a ruler—he was now using it to spar with the Dean’s bread. All the while, they were yelling insults and threats over one another.

Meanwhile, Enjolras sat as if glued to his seat, looking traumatized and unsure if he should be taking notes.

(Okay, it was still a little hilarious.)

“I am warning you Javert!” Valdean screamed, looking fierce as he brandished his baguette, “I’m the stronger man by far!”

“Men like you can never change!” Javert countered, waving his ruler around with a wild glint in his eyes, “No, 24601—“

Valdean bonked him in the mouth, effectively cutting off the rest of his tirade. Combeferre, Grantaire, and Jehan saw their chance—they rushed in and bodily dragged a limp Enjolras out of his seat, lugging him towards the door. They were halfway there when he started struggling.

“My notes!” he screeched, making grabby hands at his vacated desk, “I need my notes!”

“Every man is born in sin!” screamed a voice behind them; apparently Javert had managed to get the bread out of his mouth. “Every man must choose his way!”

“Yeah, you don’t need them that badly,” Grantaire replied, tugging him harder. Enjolras finally gave in, running with his friends out the door and out the building.

Once again panting and out of breath, they stood bent over, hands on their knees, wheezing. Then, they looked at each other and promptly fell into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Part two is finally done! Feel free to leave feedback and come bother us on tumblr ([here](http://dawidtennant.tumblr.com/) and [here](http://cooltaire.tumblr.com/)).


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